


Married to the Job

by Red



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Off-screen Relationship(s), Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Done for the prompt, "Lestrade's a drinker. Has been for years, and he handles it just fine, no really. He's fine. No resolution or fixing needed, just a little snapshot of a lonely life, maybe John and Sherlock mentioned."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Married to the Job

Married to the job. 

It's what everyone said they were, one time or another. God knew, type of people willing to put up with this line of work, they even meant it. 

Worrying the label on the bottle--weekday meant nothing too hard, working man's got to have some rules--Lestrade considered it. Lot of those he'd worked reasonably close with, they really meant it, the married thing. 

MacDonald. Hopkins. That arse Gregson. 

Donovan, certainly. Still wasn't married, still devoted to it; one of the best on the force, for his money. But of late, she'd seemed distracted. Maybe Holmes was right. Maybe not. 

And Sherlock fucking Holmes himself. He'd heard Sherlock say it more than a couple times, mostly to nice enough young things, looking for a night out but lacking a career in forensics to be exploited. More than anyone, Lestrade had figured Sherlock had honestly meant it. Man had his problems, too--Lestrade'd been careful enough over these years to carry drug busts just to the point of getting Holmes in line. 

He stopped worrying the label, killed the last of the beer, got up to the fridge and opened the next. Number five, always the one to make last: never know how late you'll stay up and need the last, no sense buying more when you've work in the morning. 

Taking a slow swig--always something about the first drink off a new beer, made you have to stop and really appreciate it--he stood for a moment in the still and cold silence of the kitchen. Near-silence, really, considering that rattling hum he'd never got the fridge to stop making. 

Just look at this place, he thought. Fridge that won't be fixed, same dishes you've left for weeks, trash full of ready meal containers. The cabinets weren't more than dishes he'd got from a deceased aunt, tinned food, and an admirable collection of liquor. 

He'd seen a lot of bachelor's apartments in his time, and he'd often thought his was at least somewhat respectable. Least it wasn't half-full of bullet holes and year-old papers, he'd thought. Least it weren't as impossibly solitary as Sherlock's. 

Thing about people saying they were married to their jobs, he thought as he took another drink (funny, how it never tasted quite like the first). They could at least have the decency to have a bit of fidelity.


End file.
